


Squandered Divinity

by billspilledquill



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Character Study, Gen, M/M, Strained Friendships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 14:44:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14620889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billspilledquill/pseuds/billspilledquill
Summary: Pierre does care about being buried in Burgundy after all.





	Squandered Divinity

 

It is snowing.

“It is snowing,” Pierre says. His book resting on his lap. His glasses falling a little off his face, the flakes a blur beside the window.

Andrei looks up from his musing, he is always thinking. His eyes glittering. “It is still Caesar’s Confessions?”

“It’s snowing.”

“You were reading it before I went to the front.”

“I said snow, Andrei.”

Pierre blinks, just realizing what he had said. “Excuse me, my friend. What did you asked?”

Andrei laughs, turning his head rather fondly. “You never listen to me properly, do you?”

“I do,” he protests weakly, “I’m just a little tired today, forgive me.”

Andrei keeps his smile a little while, and eventually turns his head to look at something much more interesting than him. “It is snowing,” he remarks. It is Pierre’s turn to chuckle.

“It seems that none of us are good listeners.”

“No,” Andrei stands up from his fur coated sofa, “mais tu ne parles jamais de toi, Pierre. Parle-moi de toi.”

Pierre looks at his friend, looks for a long time. How his eyes seem to distant at that moment. How shameful it is to understand that distance is something in between rather than just a long stretched silence.

And he wonders, just for a moment, a little, how it would feel like to tell Andrei things as crazy as wanting to taste the snow outside Moscow, how he would like to sleigh in the dark night. How old Andrei looks like. He’s been away too long.

Instead he says, like he always says, “Natasha is ill.” How little we matter, Andrei. How little matter we have.

And he adds, a little belatedly, “Forgiveness is a virtue, my friend. She is ill.”

“I know,” he says, and his arms go rigid and his face closes off. The muscles of his face tremble lightly, spams that became habits during the war, Pierre assumes. Everyone used to be better in older times. “What about you?”

“Me?” He says, incredulous.

Andrei looks to be relived to find a way out of the conversation. His eyes searches for the shimmering flames that keep burning, burning, burning. “Everyone knows at least something about themselves.”

Pierre looks straightly at Andrei. For a moment, he remembers him of that Kuragin child, as if he is almost afraid and scared of him. Pierre recoils himself further in his seat and glances guiltily away.

“What do you want, Pierre?” Andrei says, shakily. His wrinkles appearing when he frowns, “We are all so old now, what do you want? I’m so tired of this war, Pierre.” He says the last sentence almost in defeat, and Pierre feels the physical urge to stands up as well and to support his old friend with a new face. He does.

“You are not tired,” he says, “you are waiting for an end to this, my friend.”

Andrei grasps his shoulders, gently, afraid he might disappear. Hope in his eyes. Him hoping. “Tell me what should I do, tell me, Pierre.”

“I don’t know—“

“Please,” the tremblings become more apparent, yet his eyes hardened, just like his father always does. “Please.”

Pierre looks again, then, and caught himself laughing. His friend grows weary.

“What?”

“No, friend,” he says, breathless after all that laughter like some coughing fits. “Go, here’s my advice: marry someone at Burgundy. That will hopefully clear some minds.”

“Bourgogne,” Andrei laughs too, and suddenly they are children of this happy, happy earth, “Bourgogne, mon ami. Oh, mais c’est une folie!”

“Right,” he says, “so while you wait for someone to marry you in Burgundy, better be buried there before your time comes.”

“I have seen people talking well of France among soldiers before,” Andrei replies, a little spirit returning to him, “I know you, Petrúsha, you would rather be buried there than to marry in foreign grounds.”

“I don’t know about you, _monsieur André._ ” Pierre smiles, and rejoices in the familiar sound of his name. Petrúsha.

“Well, not that I have any candidate for the event,” Andrei says good-heartedly, yet his tone is cold. “We are old, friend. You are sad.”

And saying this, his hands fall from his shoulder and Pierre, in a impulsive, stupid attempt at something, catches Andrei’s hands in his. “I know you so well, my sad friend,” Andrei continues, his voice shakes with emotions, and quietly, shyly, “ I missed you.”

At these words, years seem to be suddenly so useless and despiteful. Tyranny of the clocks that trapped them outside from the worlds, and Pierre wants to tell Andrei that he doesn’t really mind marrying in Burgundy after all.

“There’s a way going on out there, my friend,” he says, and Andrei’s lips thinned and paled. He knows: I missed you too, Andryúsha. And Pierre counts to three in his head, and bring Andrei’s calloused hands to his lips and wept like Svyatoslavich‘s tears of victory to his campaign, like a soldier to see that only his feet has been amputated, and not his head. Andrei lets him, and lets him a little more.

It feels like stolen time, these moments of careless gratitude and bravery, away from societies. What will Natasha will be feeling in this case? Is the fate sealed for this young, naive woman?

He wants to say, Natasha is ill. But Andrei’s hands are now on his back, embracing his large body like a mother would a child, and he stops thinking for a moment, and listens to Andrei’s heartbeat, quick but steady.

“Do you want to have a sleigh ride one day?” He asks quietly, and immediately regrets breaking the silence. “The snow, you know. It’s snowing.”

And he looks at outside, and in his proximity to his friend, he feels Andrei’s head turn as well. It stopped snowing a while ago. The night is as black as Andrei’s fur coat.

“It’s not very cold,” his friend says, obviously lying. Andrei has always been a charming man, Pierre thinks, but sometimes he doesn’t know that the moon makes everything colder. His friend has always been living under the sun, shading away, away, away.

“Do you want to take a walk now?”

Pierre smiles, somehow excited by the prospect of walking in the dead midnight. They are truly childish old men. Old children. Will Natasha like it as well?

“You know the route to Burgundy, André. Lead the way.”

 


End file.
